


Family Tradition

by Cerusee



Series: Batfam Week 2017 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Batfam Week 2017, Cookies, Gen, Pranks, That's all I got
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 06:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerusee/pseuds/Cerusee
Summary: Damian doesn't want to go to the party.  Jason has some suggestions about how to liven things up.For the Batfam week theme: "Wayne Gala"





	Family Tradition

Damian heard him before he saw him; soft footsteps that Damian knew were only as loud as that to signal his approach. He turned, sneering. “I suppose _he_ sent you?”

The Red Hood shrugged, stance deceptively loose and easy on the rooftop. “I was contracted by a third party, but yes, I am here on _his_ behalf.”

“I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

“I was promised my very own plate of freshly baked snickerdoodles upon successful delivery of the package,” the Hood said. “Word has it there’s a cold glass of milk as a bonus if I’m timely about it.”

Damian bared his teeth at him. “I’m not going.”

“Kid,” the Hood said. “I am approximately three times your bodyweight. You may be League-trained and Bat-trained, but newsflash, so am I. And I’m more heavily armed than you are.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” Damian said confidently, and then, remembering the time the Red Hood had done just that, “...again.”

“One of these,” the Hood said, crooking his hands towards the holsters on his hips, “and I’m not saying which one, is loaded with rubber bullets. I promised to bring you back without a scratch. I gave no guarantees about all your ribs being intact.”

Damian scowled at him. He hated to admit it, but the Red Hood was a formidable foe when he was sufficiently motivated. Damian wasn’t sure he could defeat him alone. And without a decent lead, there was no guarantee Damian could outrun him, either; he was surprisingly fast for a man of his size.

“C’mon, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this with you trussed up like a chicken and slung over my shoulder.”

“I don’t want to go!” Damian half-shouted at him, stamping his foot. “Those things are so _boring_. I have to wear an uncomfortable suit, and let strangers pinch my cheeks and pretend to smile at me and make poorly-veiled insulting remarks about my heritage.”

“No shit,” the Hood said. “You think they liked _me_ any better? Not that I’m recommending it, mind you, but one of the perks of being legally dead is I don’t have to go to the parties any more. _You_ , however, have a public image to maintain, or at least that’s what the big man says.” He paused. “And you know, there _are_ things you can do to liven them up.”

“Like what?”

The Red Hood tilted his head back slightly. His face was impossible to read under the full-face mask, but something in his body language suggested to Damian that if he could see it, there would be a grin on his face. “Anybody ever tell you about the time I snuck a Poison Idea album into the Manor’s ballroom soundsystem during a Wayne charity gala?”

 

“Thanks a lot,” Dick told Jason dryly, later that night, coming down into the Cave to where Jason was polishing off the last of the milk and cookies Alfred had dutifully delivered once Damian had been handed over. “Now I know how you convinced him to come back without a fight.”

“What did he go with?” Jason asked. He licked his finger and ran it around the edges of the plate to pick up any stray cinnamon-and-sugar crumbs.

“Wagner, _Ride of the Valkyries_. There was a brief moment of concern that a bad guy was using it as intro music before, I dunno, dramatically crashing through the skylight and demanding we hand over all our cash and valuables. But when no one showed up, everyone relaxed. The biggest fallout was the orchestra conductor being annoyed that no one had warned him we were switching over to pre-recorded music; they were right in the middle of the summer section of Vivaldi’s _The Four Seasons_ ,” Dick said. “But the musicians seemed happy enough to have a crack at the catering during their unscheduled break.”

“I regret nothing.” Jason said. “Except that I wasn’t there to see the look on Bruce’s face, or for that matter, the look on the demon bird’s when he realized his prank didn’t land. I would have liked to see that.”

“No worries. Cass took a picture.” Dick pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket and fiddled with it a moment. “There you go.”

Jason’s phone pinged. “Beautiful,” he said, looking at Damian’s face, scrunched with confusion, and at Bruce’s look of clear exasperation. “So, what was the best stunt _you_ ever pulled at one of these abominations?”

“It wasn’t exactly my fault,” Dick said, ruefully. “I was ten, and someone thought it would be funny to sneak me a glass of champagne. I did a series of cartwheels down the buffet table.”

Jason snickered.

“My form was _almost_ perfect. I only ruined a couple of trays of food.”

“I bet if I went up and asked Alfred right now, he could tell me in excruciating detail exactly what the damage was.”

Dick laughed. “Probably. Please don’t.”

“I think he has it all written down somewhere. Every cute or embarrassing thing one of us has done over the years.”

“Imagine the blackmail material.” Dick paused. “You know, you could’ve come up, if you wanted to. Even if it was only to hang out in the kitchen.”

“Nah,” Jason said, rising from the table and stretching. “I didn’t bring a change of civvies. You know how Alfred feels about suits upstairs, even when the house isn’t full of drunk, curious people. And I got some work done down here.” He picked up the dishes and started towards the elevator. “But if everyone has cleared out, I’ll go say goodnight to Alf before I take off.”

“I’d steer clear of Bruce,” Dick called after him. “He’s annoyed and he blames you.”

Jason grinned over his shoulder at Dick. “In that case, I’ll say goodnight to him, too.”


End file.
